


Hints From Severus

by cruisedirector, Dementordelta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advice, Clothing Kink, Community: snape_potter, Curses, Dirty Talk, Epistolary, First Time, Humor, Journalism, Letters, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Potions, Romance, Snape Lives, Snarry Swap, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementordelta/pseuds/Dementordelta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rita Skeeter seeks Snape's help with a household advice column, Snape reads a letter from a correspondent with a familiar problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hints From Severus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokarran](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mokarran).



> Our recipient is a fan of romance and first-times, and wanted both a relationship developed via letters and something revolving around a house/home/family manor/fixer-upper. These were all very inspiring prompts. "Hints from Heloise" is a syndicated 50-year-old household advice column whose general outlines we adapted for the wizard world. Many thanks to our beta, celandineb.

The only thing more irritating than the scratching of Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill on her note pad was the expression of triumph she wore as she stared down Severus Snape.  
  
"You owe me," Skeeter proclaimed. "If I hadn't written that front-page article with those quotes from Harry Potter proclaiming your innocence, the world would still see you as the murderer of Albus Dumbledore." Her expression grew sly. "Potter told me other things about you, you know. Or, rather, he said things about you that I happened to overhear. If I were to print all of _those_..."  
  
Snape wished with all his heart that he could transfigure the Quick-Quotes Quill into a giant fly swatter and squash Skeeter flat. He glared at her, but Skeeter -- a Slytherin if ever there was one -- only smiled, leaning over his desk so that her ample breasts in their too-skimpy blouse were practically in his face.  
  
"As you know, the _Daily Prophet_ has given my former job to that incompetent little girl Katie Bell." Skeeter's lips twisted in disgust. "They won't let me write news. They've put me on the features pages -- fashion and food and _books_." Despite being the author of that infamous tome about Dumbledore, she said the last as if it were a profanity. "And they want me to write a household advice column. Me! The best investigative reporter they've ever had! Do they think I got those stories sitting in my kitchen testing pumpkin juice recipes?"  
  
No amount of ignoring her incessant drone on Snape's part would persuade Skeeter to shut up. "What is it that you want from me?" he asked her, hoping his voice dripped with the disgust he felt.  
  
Instantly Skeeter flashed him what Snape supposed she believed to be a winning smile. "I want to write the most successful advice column in the history of the paper, of course," she announced. "I want to be so successful that they'll have no choice but to offer me my pick of any position I want or risk losing me to a rival publication."  
  
Snape didn't bother to point out that there were no real rivals to the _Daily Prophet_. He gestured around the dingy, undecorated room that served as his home office. "As you well know, I am not celebrated for my domestic skills. I have lived nearly my entire life at Hogwarts with house elves to pick up after me. What use could I possibly be to you for an advice column?"  
  
Skeeter whipped out a pile of clippings, opening her hand and letting them float into a neat line on his desk. "Look at these. 'How do I remove a bloodstain from a dress in a painting?' 'What's the best sort of fixative to hang a new chandelier?' 'How can I stop my husband from smelling my boyfriend's cologne on my robes?' These aren't questions that call for a domestic goddess. They call for a potions master."  
  
Snape's mouth dropped open in horror. "You can't seriously expect me to..."  
  
"I realize that the work is beneath you; someone who recovered from wounds like yours really should be working at St. Mungo's, but they won't have you, will they? You wouldn't actually write the columns, of course -- I'll do that, to be certain that they're sufficiently witty and clever. I only need you to pick out letters that pose really challenging household problems and tell me the solutions." Skeeter paused, tapping her lip with her quill. As if as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, and I'll pay you. I hear that business hasn't exactly been booming for your little shop." She wrinkled her nose at Snape's chipped teacup. "That won't improve if I'm forced to publish those little tidbits I overheard from Potter, will it?"  
  
Damn Potter, anyway. How could he have been so stupid as to brag to Rita Skeeter of all people? Snape had always known that Potter was arrogant, but he'd never believed the boy to be exceptionally thick.  
  
While he was glowering, Skeeter dug into her bag and pulled out an assortment of notes, most written on flowery stationery. "Have a look at these," she said. "That top one -- 'How can I disguise the smell of my Muggle cousin's tobacco cigarettes?' -- surely a potions expert must have some ideas?"  
  
And, in fairness, Snape did. He knew that he could have cleaned up Grimmauld Place in half the time it took Molly Weasley, if only Molly Weasley had asked for his advice. The sole reason his own home at Spinner's End had been such a disaster had been to make living there as miserable as possible for Peter Pettigrew. There were few household catastrophes for which Snape couldn't suggest a solution.  
  
After a month of working with Rita Skeeter, Snape had gone from merely despising her to utterly loathing her, but he had to admit that she was as good as her word. She neither wrote nor allowed a single article containing his name to be approved for publication in the _Daily Prophet_ , and she deposited money into his Gringotts account every Friday. In fact, as she had predicted, the column was a success, so much so that she quickly received a raise and was generous enough to share a small portion of the earnings with him.  
  
Skeeter wasn't interested in being wealthy, but powerful, and writing an advice column would never assist her with that ambition. Snape, on the other hand, was primarily interested in remaining anonymous. So he had to admit that, as grating as he found Skeeter's personality, the arrangement suited him. It took very little time to come up with answers for people looking to remove doxy dung stains or repair wooden shelves gnawed by mababarang ants. This left him plenty of time to work on his potions, when he had clients.  
  
Secretly, Snape was just as glad to have the distraction of added work. These days he had little enough to keep his thoughts from regrets. Much to his surprise, he found that he missed Hogwarts -- not only more agreeable colleagues like Professors McGonagall and Sprout, but having students around to impress and terrorize when necessary. He knew that he could not go back -- he was fortunate enough to have survived and to live quietly enough that neither ex-Death Eaters nor ex-students had bothered to seek revenge.  
  
It was, regrettably, a dull existence.  
  
And then, in a packet of letters about slowing the growth of cheese mold and stopping curly hair from going wild in greenhouses, a piece of mail arrived that held Snape's full attention.  
  
 _I inherited an old house from my godfather. In the main hallway, a portrait has been affixed to the wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm. I have tried everything from cutting away the wall around it to setting a fire within the painting itself, but I can neither remove the portrait nor drive the subject into another painting which I could then remove or have destroyed. Would a powerful magical object be able to break the Permament Sticking Charm and pry the painting from the wall? If not, would Fiendfyre work? Just kidding -- but I really do need help removing the portrait. It's driving me mad._  
  
At their next meeting, Snape watched with more patience than he would have given himself credit for while Skeeter went through the stack of answers he'd written out.  
  
"Where's the -- " She waved one of her large, mannish hands vaguely, her bruise-purple nails flashing. "The one about the Sticking Charm?" That particular smile, Snape had decided, was always aiming to be confiding but came across as predatory. "Surely a little thing like that hasn't stumped you? Not after you answered the one about the goblin bloodstains." She shuddered slightly.  
  
"Oh, that one," Snape said, feigning indifference. "I needed more to go on." His own smile had never come across as anything but distressing. "I think I did have a rather good answer about the cheese mold," he went on disingenuously.  
  
Skeeter abandoned her pretense of affability. "Cheese molds are dull. That Sticking Charm letter sounded promising. The letter writer had...hmmm." She made a gesture with her mouth, unconscious, Snape was certain, that made it look like she was licking her quill. "A certain charm, a bit of insouciance mixed with desperation. Always good for readers to have a bit of schadenfreude with their morning gin and tonic."  
  
Snape shrugged. Any sign of interest in that particular letter would alert Skeeter's unsavory -- well, _more_ unsavory -- nosy instincts. "As I said, I needed more information."  
  
Skeeter drummed her nails on Snape's table. "Why?" she demanded.  
  
Trying to sound as little like a teacher as he could, Snape explained, "Because there's no such thing as an absolutely Permanent Sticking Charm. There must be other factors involved -- the age of the charm, the composition of the frame. I can't work with mere -- " He forced himself not to smile again. " -- insouciant information."  
  
The drumming of nails sped up until Snape wanted to reach over and crush her fingers, but he managed to resist. He considered treating his tabletop with motion-activated devil's snare seeds that would grow rapidly and suck her hand into its slimy --  
  
It took Snape a moment to realize that the drumming had stopped. He put his pleasant fantasy aside as Skeeter huffed.  
  
"I suppose there isn't any harm in putting you in touch with the reader who asked for your, I mean, my advice." Her expression turned so smug Snape starting thinking about other places for devil's snare. "It isn't as though you have any chance of competing with me with _your_ writing skills."  
  
"My writing skills aren't why you hired me," Snape said, trying not to look eager as she unclasped her handbag.  
  
Skeeter pulled out a sheaf of parchment. "Let's see...removing dragon fat drippings, how to get leprechaun blood out of gold jewelry, suggestions for using up excess fairy poo -- no, these are all for next week." She stuck her hand back into her purse, her arm disappearing nearly to the shoulder. "Here it is," Skeeter said at last, fishing out the errant missive. "Sticking Charm." She pushed back her glasses and read out the signature. "Harold Kreacher," she told him. "No address, of course, the _Prophet_ guarantees anonymity, but an owl addressed to him should get your information for you."  
  
Snape had never for a moment doubted the true identity of the querent, but he had needed to know the proper pseudonym to use in his reply, and Kreacher's name confirmed that it had been Potter rather than one of his friends who had done the actual writing. The witty reference to Fiendfyre had made Snape wonder whether Potter had had help from Granger in coming up with wording that would get Skeeter's attention.  
  
"Perhaps I should write the reply," Skeeter said thoughtfully. "Your letter will need to sound as clever as I do, and if you bungle it, everyone will know that someone else is helping me."  
  
"I'll claim to be your intern," Snape assured her, biting back a retort. He could not afford to make Skeeter doubt his reliability just now. "I'll tell the writer that I am only an assistant, but you require more information before you can offer a full solution."  
  
"All right," agreed Skeeter, looking pleased at the idea of having an intern. "Just remember that this is _my_ column. Don't get above your -- "  
  
"Just remember that you won't be able to undo the Permanent Sticking Charm without my advice," Snape warned her, risking a smile. Skeeter had better learn not to push him too far.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher_ , he began to write when that infuriating woman had finally left him in peace, using a quill spelled to disguise his handwriting. _I received your letter by way of_ The Daily Prophet _'s "Hints From Rita" column, of which I am..._ He paused, then smirked. _...the head of the research division. In order to assist you, I require more information about your portrait and the wall upon which it hangs. Do you know how long it has been affixed to the wall? Is the portrait in its original frame? Is the wall upon which it hangs made of wood or brick?  
  
Nothing as drastic as Fiendfyre will be necessary to break the charm, but depending upon the age of the painting and the construction of the home in which it is displayed, the necessary steps for removal may be too dangerous for an amateur to attempt._  
  
After some thought, he signed the note _C.Y. Prince_.  
  
An insistent tapping on his window woke Snape very early the next morning. Crossly pulling back the curtain, he saw an unfamiliar owl tapping against the glass. The ungrateful bird bit him when he offered it a bit of cat food -- he had no rats to feed it on account of the cat, who was mostly an alley cat, but crept in on cold nights to keep warm -- but it waited while he untied and read the parchment affixed to its leg.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, Thank you for replying. I don't know the exact age of the portrait, but the subject was born in 1925 and she's an adult in the painting. In fact, she's an old bag, but I'm not sure whether that means the painting was done when she was old or whether the woman in the painting aged along with the real person. She's also barking mad, but again, I don't know whether the real woman was mad at the time the portrait was painted or whether she went mad later.  
  
I've been told the frame is walnut, though I don't know whether it's the original. The wall behind it is oak, but I'm pretty sure there's brick behind that because I can't cut through the wood. I had a professional nuisance removal service out to look at it, but they couldn't take it down, and several powerful witches and wizards staying at my house have tried to get rid of it, all without success. The old bag in the painting was a vicious cow when she was alive and she's even worse now, so there may be dark magic involved._  
  
Powerful witches and wizards, indeed. Potter didn't sound so insouciant now, did he? Snape was smirking as he fetched his tea, tossing the owl a piece of sausage to keep it quiet. On several occasions, he had been present when Black had tried to remove his mother's portrait, but Black had never asked Snape for advice, so Snape had never offered any.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher_ , he wrote, unable to keep from smiling in the privacy of his room. _I sense that you feel a great deal of hostility toward the portrait's subject -- calling her "old bag" and "vicious cow" and suggesting that she must be mad. Have you tried kindness? Suggesting that she might be happier in a painting of kittens, perhaps?_ With some satisfaction, Snape pictured her being clawed by one of Dolores Umbridge's mewling wall decorations.  
  
A reply arrived before Snape finished writing up a solution for a panicked bride who could no longer fit into the expensive wedding dress she had ordered six months earlier on account of the pregnancy she was trying to hide.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, The subject of my portrait won't listen to a word I say or speak to me except to scream about how I'm a filthy half-blood. I had a painting specially commissioned for her with all her favorite things -- noble and ancient relics, house elves being tortured -- but she wouldn't budge from the one she's in now. I'm afraid that she still considers my house to be her house and is never going to leave._  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, In that case, I suggest a two-pronged attack. We need to work on weakening the spell that binds the painting to the wall, and at the same time we need to work on convincing the portrait's subject that the house belongs to you now, so she has no business being there._  
  
The reply came back so swiftly that Snape wondered whether Potter was waiting as anxiously by the window as Snape...well, not that he was by any means _eager_ to keep stringing Potter along, of course.  
  
 _Thank you, Mr. Prince, but how do you suggest I convince this portrait, which has been hanging in this house practically alone for longer than I've been alive, that she's the one who's intruding, not me? I've shown her the deed to the house -- my name appeared on it as soon as I inherited the property. I've brought in the finest minds schooled in magical theory --_  
  
Aha, Snape thought, so Granger had already had a go at Old Walburga. That would, of course, make Snape's inevitable success all the sweeter.  
  
 _\-- to attempt to convince her by all the laws of the magical world that I am the rightful owner. I've even tried blocking off that portion of the house, but the old cow always finds some reason to scream. It's getting unnerving._  
  
Snape flicked the tip of his quill over his lips, working up a truly legendary smirk, and wrote out his reply. It was very short. The owl, who had deigned to take a bit of muffin from Snape's own lunch, stuck out its leg, keeping a wary eye on the cat that wound around the table legs.  
  
Less than an hour passed before the return reply arrived, and it was even more brief than Snape's own letter had been. There was no salutation, and only a hastily scrawled signature. The fake "Harold" looked even more like "Harry" when the writer wasn't paying close attention.  
  
 _Is this a joke?_  
  
As tempted as Snape was to savor Potter's response all evening, easily able to picture the young man pacing in front of the window, peering out in expectation of a reply, Snape had little enough else to do. He fed both cat and bird in his small kitchen and penned his response.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, No, I assure you that I am not given to joking. If you do as I suggest, you will have taken the first step in assuring the offending portrait that the property has an unalterable claim upon it. No amount of dark magic mixed with sticking charms will be able to undo such time-honored magic such as I am suggesting. My research has given me ample evidence that this course of action will result in the desired ends you are seeking, when coupled with the weakening of the charm that will be the next step._  
  
The owl, more obedient with a bellyful of Snape's bacon, set off and Snape settled down to Skeeter's latest mailbag. The first one was easy -- obviously the querent hadn't been paying attention in either Charms or Potions -- as everyone knew you could alter the dose of Skele-gro for longer, sturdier fingernails. He was surprised Skeeter hadn't answered that one herself, considering the size of her talons. The next question was harder and required some actual research. He wasn't entirely certain that shrakes, which lived in the oceans, and salamanders, which required heat and fire, could be interbred in any sort of household container.  
  
His glance strayed once or twice to the window as he worked. It was a cool evening, so it was perfectly acceptable to have the window ajar. Yet it wasn't until morning that the owl returned -- really, did Potter ever feed it? It wolfed down half of Snape's kippers as though it had flown in from Wales and not from merely across London. Snape tucked the letter in his robes and shooed out both owl and cat before settling down to work.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince,_ the note began, _I'm sorry for my hasty reply last night. You must admit that your solution is...startling. However, I sent Kirby --_ Snape made a face. Kirby was a terrible name for an owl. _\-- out to ask a friend of mine -- a very clever friend -- whether she thought your idea had any merit. Not that I'm doubting you, of course -- please don't think that, but for something so drastic, I really do need to be sure, you know?_  
  
There were several more lines of apology before the end. _So exactly how should I proceed? Yours very sincerely, Harold Kreacher._  
  
Kirby was still on Snape's back stoop when he arrived home that evening after a very slow day at the shop. Snape opened the door a crack, summoning the owl, and got the scrawny cat back in as well. There seemed no course but to feed both, as both had identical put-out expressions, the kind that only hungry animals and teenagers could achieve.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher,_ he penned to the steady tune of feline and avian feeding, _I suggest you brew a rather large pot of tea and proceed to those areas not covered by carpeting, paying particular attention to doors and windows. If there is carpet in front of the offending portrait, I suggest you remove it before marking your territory there._  
  
Snape could not resist smiling at the idea of Potter pissing in front of the portrait of Walburga Black. Potter was not the only one she'd insulted with her pure blood mania.  
  
 _Oh, and I'd suggest having your wand with you to perform Scourgifying charms as necessary._  
  
The owl was taking its time about eating, so before sending the note, Snape opened the newspaper to see whether he had missed anything important in the wizarding world. The Ministry was now even more disorganized than it had been under Fudge, but the news was unrelentingly upbeat, and their poster boy Potter was often summoned to their events to help bring in some positive publicity. Snape hadn't been able to help noticing that while Ginny Weasley had often appeared in photos with him several months earlier, she was noticeably absent now. He wondered whether that had to do with Miss Weasley's schedule or something more. After all, Potter hadn't mentioned the portrait upsetting his girlfriend.  
  
The owl took off with his letter just as another owl arrived, this one carrying an envelope bearing the seal of the _Daily Prophet_ and his name in Rita Skeeter's handwriting. Snape took a quick look at Skeeter's latest column in the paper -- he rarely read them closely, being unable to tolerate the attempts at humor she interspersed while passing on his advice -- but he generally did check to be certain that she had remained accurate to his instructions, which thus far she had done admirably. Nothing seemed amiss, so he read the latest missive.  
  
It seemed that the _Prophet_ was so pleased with Skeeter's success that they planned to expand her column to cover half a page, with illustrations where they would be beneficial to readers to demonstrate how to take care of household problems that might plague more than one witch or wizard. Skeeter was extremely pleased as well, since she took this to mean she was moving up in the estimation of the publishing staff and expected to be offered her choice of news beat very soon, but she had been rethinking her initial desire to return to investigative reporting, for would it not allow her more freedom to become the paper's news editor?  
  
By "freedom," of course, Skeeter meant power, and indeed, becoming news editor would allow her to terrorize not only a few subjects of investigation but anyone in the wizarding world on whom she turned her attention, with a staff of reporters and researchers at her beck and call. Snape rolled his eyes, then burst out laughing helplessly when he read the conclusion of her note:  
  
 _As you can see, it is very important that we begin this new development for the column with a spectacularly interesting case. I was thinking of the house with the portrait and the Permanent Sticking Charm -- that would provide plenty of opportunity for illustration, perhaps even some sketches of what NOT to do. How is your correspondence with the writer coming along?_  
  
Snape couldn't decide which was more entertaining, the mental picture of a _Daily Prophet_ illustration of Potter pissing in front of a painting or the way he envisioned Skeeter's expression when he told her what he had suggested. If the artist was very creative, perhaps the piss could run down between the page columns and collect in a pool around the jump text, "NEXT: DETACHING A STUBBORN FRAME." Though that would be distracting from the primary image of Potter pissing, which, Snape had to admit, was arousing in a rather perverse way. Readers -- including Snape, truth be told -- would pay good money to see an illustration of Potter's prick, even doing _that_.  
  
Perhaps Potter was taking his advice and doing it right now. Snape shifted in his chair, but his own prick had grown too hard to be comfortable with his trousers fastened. He glanced around the room. The cat had wandered off -- probably to sleep on his bed -- and the owl likely wouldn't be back for some time. Aiming his wand at the door, he shut and locked it, then opened his trousers to give his prick some relief -- not the sort that Potter was likely even now enjoying all around his doorway and windows and up and down the entry hall, but oh, yes, Snape's prick definitely did enjoy the thought of that.  
  
It was unfortunate that Snape had no easy way to spy on Potter. How delightful it would be to follow Potter's movements with a Seeing Stone, or better yet to sneak into the portrait, hide behind Walburga Black, and watch as Potter unzipped his jeans and pulled out his prick...  
  
No, Potter was still wearing too many clothes. Perhaps, as a further way to demonstrate that the house was his own, Potter would be clever enough to walk around naked. Snape was going to suggest that he do just that when Potter wrote back to report on his progress marking his territory.  
  
Yes, a naked Potter would be a more satisfying, which was to say efficient, means of weakening the Permanent Sticking Charm. Closing his eyes and stroking a hand over his own prick, Snape focused on the image of a completely nude Potter striding through number 12 Grimmauld Place, holding his wand erect, squirting piss along the floorboards and windowsills before stopping in front of the portrait, aiming straight up and spraying out ahhhhh...  
  
Bloody hell, he'd ejaculated all over his own trousers. Even more heat rushed to Snape's already flushed cheeks as he grabbed his wand and cast a cleaning charm. It wasn't the first time that he had wanked while fantasizing about Harry Potter, but usually he stuck to somewhat dull images of well-built men from magazines for witches, and tried to push men he knew in person from his thoughts -- especially men who loathed him, who had barely spoken to him since learning that he had survived the battle of Hogwarts, who had no interest in him apart from hoping for answers to difficult household problems.  
  
The cat mewed and pawed at the door, hoping to be let inside. With a sigh, Snape rose to open the door. A cat was the only regular companion that he could expect to have.  
  
A tapping at Snape's window woke him in the middle of the night. Though his first instinct was to curse whatever creature had interrupted his sleep, he quickly realized what it meant. Sure enough, there was Potter's owl, hooting hopefully for food as soon as Snape had let it inside. Quickly Snape unwrapped the parchment tied to the bird's foot.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, I am writing to you at this ridiculous hour because the portrait has not stopped screaming once in six straight hours, though I have covered her with curtains and canvas and even an inflated pillow case. After embarrassing myself by pissing all over my floor, I am now being subjected to the added humiliation of being told my filthy half-blood prick is shriveled and pathetic. I know it isn't the biggest one out there, but "shriveled" is unfair.  
  
I don't think marking my territory did anything to make the portrait feel the house is any less her own. And now I can't even sleep. With frustration, Harr-_ The second R had been overwritten with an O. _-old Kreacher_  
  
Rubbing at his eyes, Snape summoned a Quick-Quotes Quill and used the usual spell to disguise his handwriting. _Dear Mr. Kreacher,_ he dictated to it. _On the contrary, the elevated level of hysteria from your portrait likely indicates that she is feeling threatened and is trying to reestablish her weakening dominance over your home. Her insulting remarks about your genitalia suggest the same._  
  
Snape was too tired to describe in detail his fantasy, er, advice about how Potter should walk through the house naked, but he did want to press his advantage. _I suggest that you prove her insults wrong by demonstrating your potency to her,_ he continued. _In short, park yourself in front of the portrait and alleviate your frustration by having a wank._ The quill paused as if it, too, was unable to believe that Snape had suggested such a thing, then finished scribbling when Snape signed off, _Your humble servant, C.Y. Prince._  
  
There was no friendly greeting on the note that arrived in the morning. _Listen_ , it read, _I have enough trouble wanking in my bedroom with a silencing spell on the door. Somehow she always seems to know when I'm doing it and starts screaming about my sick, twisted, unnatural lusts, even though I've never brought a man home with me for sex and I keep magazines with pictures of that sort of thing hidden in my room. There's no way I can wank in front of the portrait. Why do you think it's so important to me to get rid of the bitch?_  
  
Snape read through the last few lines again, then again, in case Potter's horrid handwriting had somehow caused ‘woman' or ‘girl' or ‘lady' to come out looking like ‘man'. He was quite sure after about the fifth pass that Potter had indeed confessed to a virtual stranger that he was queer.  
  
He had confessed it to Snape. Potter was a menace to himself. Snape picked up his quill.  
  
 _I had believed that you were serious about removing the offending portrait, but I can see this project is quite low on your list of priorities, I too have a great deal of research to do in my capacity as head of the research department. For instance, did you know that there was once a very famous member of the War Cabinet who was actually a house elf?_  
  
Snape had no idea if this was true, of course, but he was feeling a sense of disappointment that he could not pinpoint, and perhaps a bit of lingering guilt over his completely inappropriate wank the day before. He fought a brief tug of war with the infernal owl over the last rasher of bacon, finally breaking it off and sending Kirby out the window.  
  
At least Snape had gotten the largest bit of the bacon.  
  
It took a few hours before he began to regret being so abrupt with Potter. It was not Potter's fault that Snape felt the merest twinge from wanking over what he'd imagined Potter had been up to. He tried to rally on his way home from work. After all, he still had Skeeter's most recent queries to work on; surely some of them had promise. Who needed Potter with his irascible portrait and his questionable magazines and his men hoping for a chance to be invited to his house?  
  
The owl was waiting for Snape on his front stoop when he got home. It looked a bit put out that Snape didn't have anything on his person to feed it. He did insist on opening the door, noticing as he passed the bird that there was indeed a letter attached to Kirby's leg. The owl flapped in behind him and went straight to the kitchen.  
  
"It'll be kippers for you," Snape warned, reaching for the tin. "And you," he continued as the skinny cat hopped onto a kitchen chair, giving an imperious yowl. "There's no sense complaining about it, _someone_ ate the last of the bacon this morning." The owl hooted as if acknowledging guilt.  
  
Snape forced himself to wait until all three of their stomachs were satisfied before he opened Potter's letter, fully convinced that Potter was about to tell him off for his rudeness.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, I'm very sorry,_ it began, and Snape felt a quiver go through him. There were several more insipidly worded apologies before:  
  
 _If by admitting my sexual preference I've offended you in some way, I apologize --_  
  
Yes, yes, Snape had figured out that Potter did dote on apologies.  
  
 _\-- however, I do feel as though I've got to know you a bit and I didn't think there was any harm in telling you a little about myself in return, especially since it seems relevant to the problem we're working on. The, um..._  
  
Snape snorted -- Potter had actually spelled out "um"!  
  
 _...other thing we tried might be working. After she stopped shrieking, she started looking, I don't know, worried. I hope this is a good sign._  
  
Once again Potter appeared to have begun to write "Harry" before turning the second R into an O in Harold Kreacher's signature.  
  
Sighing, Snape reached for his own quill. It wasn't entirely Potter's fault if he was prone to blabber to strangers, given the way Dumbledore had insisted on preparing him to face the Dark Lord. Nor did it sound as though he was bragging about his sexual exploits; if anything, by admitting to the collection of magazines, he sounded nearly as pathetic as Snape himself.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Potter,_ he wrote, then had to start again on a fresh piece of parchment with the correct pseudonym. _Dear Mr. Kreacher, Perhaps I misunderstood your motives._ He was not going to apologize to Potter for that; Potter still owed him a half-dozen apologies for his misdeeds at Hogwarts. _If the subject of the portrait appears to be concerned that she is losing her grip on the situation, then this is the moment to attack the spell's grip on the wall as well._  
  
He wrote out a list of ingredients for a glue-dissolving potion so simple that a fourth-year could manage it, making sure to spell out every detail as he would have done in his own notes when he was a student. Potter had never listened to a thing Snape had said in the classroom, but from what Slughorn had told him, Potter had done a fine job following instructions from Snape's own textbook. The potion did call for bloodroot, which Snape doubted that Potter had lying around the house, so he packaged some up carefully and charmed it so that the owl couldn't peck through the wrapping.  
  
At the bottom of the directions, he could not resist adding, _The potion will be more effective if you mix it with some of your urine. Since it seems to have distressed the portrait, I suggest that you repeat the entire process of marking your territory._  
  
Whether or not it would strengthen Potter's claim on the property, thought Snape with a smirk, it might help make him more comfortable being naked in his own house.  
  
The owl had fallen asleep with its beak tucked against its own shoulder, so Snape did not send his letter to Potter until the next morning. By then, a fierce-eyed owl was pecking at his own window. _Severus_ , began the note from Skeeter, though Snape had never invited her to call him by name. _The_ Prophet _wants to push up the launch date for the new column to this Monday. Have you broken the Sticking Charm? If so, I will contact the art department at once to see about some preliminary sketches._  
  
That certainly would not do. Frowning, Snape dashed off a note to her explaining that this particular portrait was an unusual case in that it had been reinforced for many years by a loyal house elf -- which gave him an idea -- then suggested that the inaugural expanded column instead focus on ways parents could tell whether their teenage children were experimenting with illegal potions or the Dark Arts. As he had suspected, Skeeter proved to be quite keen on the idea, especially Snape's descriptions of spells for eavesdropping and spying on correspondence.  
  
Skeeter was, however, still eager to produce a column on the Permanent Sticking Charm, envisioning lively illustrations of a distinguished home, a shrieking portrait, and a dramatically crashing frame. Clearly Snape was going to need to alter many details to provide her with the sort of story she wanted.  
  
As for Potter, Snape had to wait till evening for the return of his owl, from which Snape untied the note even as the bird was gulping down some of Snape's own mincemeat pie. _Dear Mr. Prince,_ it read. _Thank you very much for replying. I made the potion and applied it just as you said. The entire time, the portrait screamed at me to stop, which I think shows real progress -- usually she just screams at me about what a filthy unnatural disgrace to wizarding she thinks I am. I still can't get her off the wall, but now when I pull on the frame it rattles quite a bit. She also covered her face when I pulled out my prick --_  
  
Snape's cock gave a hard throb. He tried to ignore it.  
  
 _\-- and pissed on the floor in front of her. I still don't think I'm up for wanking near her, though. Plus I have a house elf who makes me nervous, and he's suspicious enough about why I've been doing all these Scourgifying charms._  
  
The mention of Kreacher, the real Kreacher, reminded Snape of the thought he had had earlier. _Dear Mr. Kreacher, You should have told me that you had a house-elf_ , he admonished sternly. _If your elf remains loyal to the previous owner of your house, that would explain why any spells that predate your residence remain stronger than your counter-spells. Could you persuade your house-elf to declare his allegiance to you in the presence of the portrait?_ Remembering the miserable elf face peering with hatred at the members of the Order of the Phoenix, he added, _Or would you consider dismissing the elf from your service, and thus from the house?_  
  
He thought that perhaps Potter would send the elf to the Malfoys, which Kreacher would consider a step down from the Ancient and Noble House of Black and thus treat the Malfoys with the same disdain with which they would treat him. All of them would be as miserable about the arrangement as they deserved.  
  
Snape should have known better than to expect such logic from Potter, however. Before turning in for the night, he received a return owl.  
  
 _You think I should set my house elf free in return for acknowledging me as the rightful owner of my house? I'm not sure whether that would work -- he loved serving the horrible family from whom I inherited it and he's never done anything but mutter about how free elves aren't natural. But I know he hates it here, and my clever friend has been telling me for months that I should free him, anyway. Will that get rid of the portrait for good?_  
  
Snape was not certain that, even deprived of her elf's loyalty, Walburga would give up without some final show of strength from Potter, but he certainly believed that both Kreacher and Grimmauld Place would be better off disentangled from each other.  
  
Since it was late, Snape waited until morning before replying -- purely to torment Potter with anticipation, he told himself, and not because he'd gotten used to feeding the infernal owl at breakfast. Thus it was that Kirby looked well-fed and well-rested as he flapped out of Snape's window with the reply for Potter.  
  
 _Perhaps there is another branch -- a distaff branch -- of the family to whom you could send the elf. House elves have their own undervalued but unique magic, and it may be this magic that is abetting the magic affixing the portrait to the wall, even without your elf being aware of it.  
  
I would further suggest that you continue your campaign to assert your rightful claim upon the property. The more comfortable you are strutting -- _  
  
Snape had struck out that last word and replaced it with --  
  
 _sauntering --_  
  
Potter admittedly did have a rather nice saunter.  
  
 _\-- around your home, the less effective the portrait's power will be. Bold action is required. If you cannot bring yourself to wank in front of the portrait, perhaps you could assert your authority by parading in front of it with a butt plug or similar restraints._  
  
Just thinking about penning that letter in the morning made Snape's prick throb all afternoon. The idea of Potter reading Snape's words about inserting a plug inside himself, never mind showing his arse to the unappreciative audience in the portrait, was supremely arousing. By the time he made it home from the shop, he had to barricade the waiting owl and the dratted cat outside of his loo so that he could yank his prick out of his trousers and let the image of Potter strutting or _fuck_ sauntering directly in front of him saturate his imagination. He leaned against his bathroom door, tugging on his prick, feeling his release boiling out of him after a dozen strokes.  
  
The owl looked, not surprisingly, hungry, but the cat looked like it knew exactly what he'd been up to. "Don't tell me you don't approve," he told the smug feline face. "You could be living with Potter, who apparently doesn't feed his animals as well as I do." The cat ignored him as soon as Snape set the dish down, leaving Snape free to open the reply he'd removed from the owl's leg.  
  
 _Look,_ the letter began after the customary preliminaries, _if this stuff didn't seem like it was working, I would think you were the biggest perv in the wizarding world._ Snape allowed himself a smirk. _At first the old cow just ignored me, even though I was completely starkers in my own front hall. Trust me, that's an improvement over all the screeching she usually does about how disgusting and foul I am. Then I sort of squatted down and put in the you-know-what, then started dusting. I know you haven't seen my house but I have a lot of relics from the former owners. Lots of stretching and bending._  
  
Despite having spent quite recently, Snape's prick twitched in his trousers.  
  
 _She started making these really weird noises, like she was whimpering, then she went all quiet and she's been like that for hours. I tried to work the portrait free from the wall and it definitely rattles more than it used to, though I can't get it down even with an enchanted crowbar.  
  
I also tried to talk to my elf about declaring loyalty to me, but although he acknowledged that he now served me, he said it very begrudgingly and went on about how much simpler things were before I ever set foot in the house. I think he might feel guilty about something terrible he did a couple of years ago. I asked him what he'd do if I gave him clothing and let him go his own way, and he started to shriek, so I dropped the subject before he got the portrait going again._  
  
Snape now believed that Kreacher -- the real Kreacher, not pseudonymous Potter -- was the key to removing Walburga Black from the house of her fathers. But there was no need to tell Potter that until they had exhausted every other possibility.  
  
Heating up some Muggle canned meat and frozen veg, the only things his father had been able to cook when his mother was ill or absent, Snape pondered the possibilities. By the time he had finished eating and looking over the latest pile of mail from Skeeter, which included a frantic request for help removing satyr semen stains from a dress, he was smirking broadly.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, It sounds as if you are making real progress. I suggest that you keep working on the elf, convincing him that he cannot take any pride in his work unless he shows true loyalty to his current master. I also advise you to apply more glue-dissolving potion all around the portrait, mixed liberally with your piss._  
  
A wide grin stretched across his face as he continued, _Since the portrait seems responsive to your displays of ownership, you should extend them to whatever possessions of hers remain in the home. Clothes and jewels often embody the material values of their owner. If the subject of the portrait left any such items -- particularly intimate items such as knickers and nightgowns -- it would be useful if you were to take to wearing them around the house, making sure to draw attention to yourself near the portrait. If you are not comfortable wanking in them, other acts of possession may help weaken the portrait's hold on the home, so don't be afraid of staining or tearing them._  
  
Snape spent the rest of the evening trying to come up with witty answers to Skeeter's other correspondents. He thought that perhaps, when Skeeter managed to move up to the editorial position she craved, she might let him keep working on the column. The pay was good, but the opportunity to read about the vices and stupidity of witches and wizards made it particularly appealing.  
  
He did not expect to hear back from Potter before morning, so the tap at his window just before midnight surprised him. Setting down his book, an American novel about sexy male vampires, he rose to let the owl in. The bird looked sleepy and puffed at once on the perch by the fireplace, not even bothering to beg for food as Snape untied the note tied to its leg. He unrolled and read it as the cat rubbed hopefully against his legs, expecting that perhaps he might feed them both again.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, You_ are _the biggest perv in the wizarding world, but I managed to make the portrait cry, so I suppose you must know what you're talking about. I had to perform three cleaning charms before I could stand the idea of putting on the old bag's girdle, but once I had it on, I kind of liked it. And since she was so quiet and miserable afterward, I couldn't hear her in my room with the door shut, so I managed to have a really good wank for the first time in months. Staining and tearing have both been accomplished. Should I cover the portrait with the old towel I used to clean myself off?  
  
Tomorrow I'll try wearing her nightgown, but first I want to make sure my house elf is busy. I don't think it will convince him to declare loyalty to me if he sees me in his mistress's lacy things._  
  
It was time for bed, but Snape's prick had no interest in sleeping. It was much too aroused from the thought of Potter sauntering around at Grimmauld Place in a girdle, then wanking in his bedroom. It had not escaped Snape's attention that when he'd instructed Potter to use a butt plug, Potter hadn't objected that he didn't own any such thing. Did Potter like to wank with toys or in restraints? Would he listen if Snape advised him to take a piece of ribbon or lace from some article of Walburga's clothing and wear it tied around his prick all day?  
  
Perhaps a cold shower would be conducive to sleep, thought Snape, locking the cat out of the loo again and studying himself in the full-length mirror. His prick, he supposed, was acceptable -- at the moment it was large and dark and twitching, which was Potter's fault -- but the rest of him was as ugly and sallow as ever. Of course no attractive Quidditch-playing hero was going to be attracted to him, even if he were to reveal himself as the one responsible for Potter's newfound ability to wank in peace. Potter didn't even like him.  
  
Not even a cold shower could keep Snape's prick down for long. Defeated, he pulled out a magazine with photos of anonymous men performing lewd acts with their wands. Perhaps Snape could suggest that Harry...  
  
Not Harry, _Potter_ , he reminded himself. And not Potter, _Kreacher_. The original of whom would probably end up declaring his loyalty to Potter sooner rather than later, as nearly everyone did in the end, and then Potter would have no more need to talk to Snape.  
  
Even his bout of moroseness and self-pity did not spoil his orgasm. In fact, all things considered, especially how much he'd tried to stave it off, it was one of Snape's more spectacular, if solo, ones. Snape's sated brain was still mulling over the answers to Potter's problems, the cat curled up beside his knees, as Snape fell asleep.  
  
Potter's owl had no trouble lingering for breakfast so Snape took his time with the reply.  
  
 _Mr. Kreacher, May I commend you for your initiative? The semen-soaked towel is an inspired idea and I suggest you implement that at once, especially if the towel is still a bit damp. I hope this letter finds you ensconced in a nightgown or soiled knickers. In the spirit of improvisation, may I suggest you take a bit of ribbon or lace and tie it around your prick during one of your naked forays into housekeeping._  
  
Snape felt well pleased by this reply, sending it off with the bacon-stuffed owl. Therefore he was disappointed when he arrived home to find his porch absent of owls. Well, perhaps the ravenous creature was waiting by the kitchen window.  
  
The cat, having no job in the wizarding world save to remind Snape of its existence by twining through his legs, hopped up onto the counter at once, renewing its displeasure that Snape checked the kitchen window before acquiescing to its demands for dinner.  
  
There was a distinct lack of owl on the kitchen sill as well, and it was not to be spotted dozing on the porch, nor perched up on the eaves. Dinner was a distracted affair as Snape mulled over the owl's continued absence. There were no storms in London to blow if off course, no reports of phenomenon not conducive to the safe passage of the post. Since it was a private owl, Snape couldn't call the Ministry Owl Office and make inquiries as to whether it had gone astray. And of course he couldn't ask Potter whether he'd sent the owl off on some other mission -- procuring a companion for the evening perhaps, or sending a love note to some swain.  
  
Snape tried to concentrate on his evening's lusty vampire chapter but found his attention veering away from bloodlust to matters closer to home. Had he, perhaps, gone too far with Potter? Potter had at least given Snape the benefit of an "are you out of your mind" at the first outré suggestion, pissing, which Snape considered considerably more pervy than knicker-wearing or ribbon-tying.  
  
After perhaps the third or fourth time Snape's eyes had strayed to the window -- he would absolutely not admit to more times than that -- he abandoned the literary bloodsuckers to their own pursuits and started sulking, er, pacing.  
  
Damn it, Potter had admitted that despite the untoward nature of the requests, Snape's suggestions were having an effect. Snape distinctly recalled Potter praising his therapies on more than one occasion.  
  
There was still no owl by bedtime, leaving Snape to wonder if he should word an apology or whether his pride would admit that he rather did like having Potter's attention, even anonymous attention. He still hadn't made any decision -- or any decision he could admit to -- by the time he came down for breakfast the next morning. The owl was peering into his kitchen window.  
  
"Just in time for breakfast, I see," Snape said, feeling less grumpy than he had upon waking. There was a fat note attached to Kirby's leg. Snape removed it, setting it aside and making sure everyone present had had breakfast before unfurling the note. The salutation had been inked over, then written in again.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, Very sorry this took so long to send but I have been engaged in battle and unable to take a moment to write as properly as I needed to. Battle, yes, for you are indeed brilliant --_  
  
Snape preened.  
  
 _\-- perverted, but brilliant._  
  
Snape could accept that.  
  
 _I left the towel (you were right, it was still a bit damp) draped over her portrait all day, not covering it enough so the loony bat couldn't see what I was up to, but enough so she couldn't miss what I'd been up to on it.  
  
I've practically set up camp in my front hall. Reminds me a bit of another time -- well, never mind. I laid out a bunch of her things on my camp bed. I don't think my elf has gotten rid of anything the old cow wore her whole life. It took nearly all day, but I tried on every single one of them. Knickers. Those belt things that hold up stockings. More hideous nightgowns than any sane person should have, but I guess there wasn't anything sane about her when she was alive either.  
  
I found a lovely bit of lace on one of them and tore it off -- really slowly, mind you, making sure she was watching. She turned sort of purple but she didn't start shrieking. I wrapped the lace around my cock and made a nice bow. Too bad there isn't some appreciative bloke here. Anyway, I got a bit of inspiration -- your fault I suppose, since I've been trying to think like you, like a perv in other words. I took the most hideous of the hideous nightgowns and rolled it up and transfigured it so I could use it for a butt plug. You should have heard the shrieks! Went on for hours, until she was hoarse from them, though I'm not sure how that works since she doesn't have any lungs to speak of._  
  
Reading this, Snape was glowing with pride, despite Potter's side trips into minutiae. Perhaps there was hope for Potter after all. Too bad there wasn't a way to give Outstanding marks for Sheer Perviness.  
  
 _I put on the girdle thing again once her shrieks had started tapering off, and found a really sheer pair of stockings. No idea where the old bat got those, her usual sort are the woolly kind, so thick you could strain potions with them. I was hopeless at the snaps or whatever they're called -- those things that hold up the stockings -- so I did a lot of bending and wiggling, which was all to the good, since it showed off the nightgown butt plug. I transfigured the rest of her things into a sort of blanket so I could get onto the camp bed and put it over me and well, I must say those stockings felt pretty good and so did the butt plug and since she couldn't see me, I had a nice tug and fell asleep before I could write to you last night.  
  
Yours very sincerely, Harold Kreacher._  
  
Clearly Snape had underestimated Potter's capacity for wickedness. To think that Potter had called Snape the biggest perv in the wizarding world when Potter was so perverted in his own right! If Skeeter knew, she would probably drop all plans for the column and get to work immediately on a feature about the kinks of the Chosen One. _The Daily Prophet_ wouldn't publish it even if they elected to forego illustrations, but Snape had no doubt that there were plenty of publications that would be interested.  
  
Fortunately, this information was known only to himself, for his own private use...well, for his use to help Potter, though it did seem that Potter had relished describing his activities in far more detail than was truly necessary. Frowning, Snape wondered whether Potter was merely humoring him, making up stories about his exploits to...  
  
To what? Potter had no idea that it was Snape on the other end of the correspondence, and Snape had no doubt of his sincere desire to remove Walburga Black's portrait from his home. Nor did Snape doubt anything Potter had said about her screaming that his lusts were unnatural; the portrait had screamed similar things at Walburga's own son when the Order of the Phoenix was meeting at Grimmauld Place. Snape had been most curious about what she had meant, but he had had too many other things on his mind to spend time snooping after Sirius Black.  
  
It was impossible to avoid noticing the things that Potter had _not_ said in his note, however. Snape sat down to compose a reply before realizing that he might sound overly involved if he answered too quickly. Besides, his prick had been straining for his attention since Snape had first read the bit about Potter wearing garters. Checking to see that the owl was cleaning its feathers and the cat had settled in for its late-early-morning nap, which would be followed by a hopeful inspection of the kitchen, then its mid-late-morning nap, Snape took the letter and locked himself in the loo with it.  
  
If Potter liked having things shoved up his arse while he was bent over in stockings, pondered Snape, perhaps he could offer to oblige him...oh yes, just like that...harder...fuck!  
  
Snape felt certain that if he could hang his own dirty towel over Walburga's portrait beside Potter's, it would drive the old bat away forever, for surely she knew that Snape had betrayed the Dark Lord and spent most of his life protecting the ungrateful git who didn't even realize that his Potions teacher was now devoting so much time to solving his sticky problem. But obviously he could not come out and tell Potter his own true identity, let alone that he knew whom he had been instructing to perform all those unconventional -- well, pervy -- counter-measures.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher_ , he wrote when he was sufficiently recovered and had washed. _I am impressed with your initiative and very pleased that you took the time to detail your efforts to me. I believe that we are very near to achieving the joint release --_ Frowning, he blotted out those last three words. _\-- the full erasure of the spell keeping the portrait affixed to your wall. However, I have two concerns. You did not mention whether you had made any progress in convincing your elf to support your claim to the house. Nor did you mention whether you had made any further effort either to pry the painting from the wall or to pressure its subject to enter another painting. I do hope that you aren't becoming attached to the old bat's clothing, as that will only strengthen her own link to your property._  
  
No sooner had Snape sent the owl off with the note, it seemed, than there was a knock at his door. Had Potter put some sort of trace on the bird? Quickly he raced into his bedroom, putting on a newer shirt and running a comb through his hair. His heart was beating quickly from all the rushing around when he opened the door.  
  
Rita Skeeter stood outside, clad in a metallic green suit that made her look like a Japanese beetle. She was smirking as she looked him over. "Expecting someone else?" she asked saucily.  
  
Frowning more to cover his disappointment than because he expected any manners from her, Snape waved her inside.  
  
"I've done it," she gloated as soon as the door closed behind her. "I have the column that will get me my promotion."  
  
Still scowling, Snape offered her a chair. The traitorous cat rose, stretched, and rubbed itself against her legs as Skeeter circled the parlor -- picking up a book to check the title and making Snape glad that he had left his sordid vampire novel in the bedroom -- before she sat down, letting the cat settle beside her with an expression as triumphant as her own.  
  
Skeeter leaned forward. "I was at the Ministry proposing an article about the post-You-Know-Who cleanup efforts when who should walk in but Lucius Malfoy." Snape was not entirely successful in keeping his lip from curling, which made Skeeter smirk. "I know he's a coward and on the outs with the current Minister of Magic, but his mansion is still legendary, and apparently nothing has been quite right since You-Know-Who took up residence there. Did you know that the drains on the Malfoy estate are full of snakeskins and that try as they might, they can't drive the cockatrices from their pantries?"  
  
That was not a surprise to Snape, though he was startled that Malfoy would have mentioned such problems to Skeeter. Perhaps Malfoy thought that by convincing people the Dark Lord had been there entirely against his will, and that he had suffered as much as anybody else, he would win back favor for his family.  
  
"Anyway, the Malfoys have promised me full access to their home if we wish to do a spread of photos to accompany an article on removing infestations brought by unwanted guests. Can you imagine the before-and-after layout? And the Malfoys are sure to share some never-before-told stories about You-Know-Who. Think of the publicity!"  
  
Snape had no desire to help Lucius Malfoy improve his image. Nor did he wish to spend any time thinking about ways to remove the snakeskins preventing the Malfoy toilets from flushing. "What about the Permanent Sticking Charm?" he asked sharply.  
  
Skeeter rolled her eyes. "I've been waiting for you to tell me, but you've given me no progress reports and you won't even let me see your correspondence with that Mr. Kreacher. Perhaps I'll write to him and tell him that if he's willing to give up a bit of anonymity, we'd like to do a full spread on..."  
  
"No!" Snape interrupted more sharply than he had intended. "Anonymity is very important to Mr. Kreacher."  
  
"Which makes his problem less desirable for a really juicy scoop," Skeeter pointed out. "Here's what I think. I think that you should spend less time working on the Permanent Sticking Charm and come with me to Wiltshire..."  
  
Under no circumstances did Snape intend to present himself to Malfoy as Rita Skeeter's anonymous assistant. "I'm afraid I'm busy..." he began, just as they were both startled by a tap on the window.  
  
Potter's owl had returned already.  
  
"...as you can see." Snape was only too happy to admit the bird, even though it flew at once to the kitchen as though it hadn't had breakfast a short time earlier. "And I thought we had agreed that _I_ should remain anonymous. Unless, of course, you plan to turn your column over to me once you've achieved your promotion."  
  
Skeeter gave him a calculating stare. "You want to take over the column?" she demanded.  
  
Shrugging a bit, Snape tried to appear nonchalant. "I believe I have the aptitude for its continued success."  
  
"Well," she said slowly. "I suppose I will consider it... _if_ you help me make the Malfoy column an unqualified triumph."  
  
They struck their unholy bargain, convinced, Snape was certain, each had outmaneuvered the other. Skeeter wanted to decamp to Wiltshire immediately, but Snape, pleading the responsibilities of keeping shop -- even one as indifferently kept as his own -- managed to put her off for a few days. He assumed that would be more than enough time to tidy up Potter's problem, though the idea of dragging it out for weeks and months had crossed his mind.  
  
Not only did he, reluctantly and only in private, have to admit that Potter was not thick enough to allow his lack of resolution to the problem to continue, but Snape could easily picture Potter seeking out someone else to help with his problem, or getting angry and frustrated by the lack of success and tracking his advisor down. Snape couldn't allow that to happen. He was more determined than ever to make use of the influence he had over Potter in the time he had left.  
  
The owl gave him a reproachful glare once Snape finally entered the kitchen. "There's no use looking at me like that. I had to get rid of that woman or she would have invited herself for lunch and then there'd be nothing left for you lot."  
  
After a possessive hoot, the owl stuck out its leg and Snape removed the letter, automatically setting it aside until every mouth was fed before he had his own treat. The letter was considerably thinner than this morning's missive, but it had come much sooner than Snape had expected.  
  
The usual salutation was in place, though it did look as though something had been rubbed out beneath it. Snape couldn't quite make it out, but it had been something short. Well, on to the note: _Dear Mr. Prince, Right, sorry about not responding to all your concerns, I was so busy telling you about that other thing that I forgot all the aspects of our attack.  
  
And no, under no circumstances am I becoming attached to that cow's rubbishy knickers. I had to shrink most of them to fit me, as I have a Seeker's build._  
  
Snape had a brief but vivid image of Potter in garter and stockings riding a broom. Or a cock.  
  
 _Though to be honest, I wouldn't mind getting a nice one of those belt things and some stockings if I could find a discreet place that accepts owl post._  
  
Snape made a mental note to research such places at once.  
  
 _As you suggested, I had another go at persuading my elf. Not easy, since he's been making himself scarcer than usual with all the activity in the house. I demanded to know whether he was going to do as I'd asked and declare his loyalty to me. The cheeky little bast -- er, elf just grumbled something and looked smirky. I think he knows how much I want him to do it, and wants something in return, but I can't fathom what. Every time I ask, he just mumbles something about how I should know and starts polishing something. Any ideas on what I can offer him? And just in case, no, in advance, if I have to share a butt plug with the little git. I'd rather sell this house.  
  
My plan is to spend the afternoon in that belt thing again with a pair of the old cow's knickers with the crotch cut out. To be honest, I've almost forgotten what it's like to wear actual clothes. I'm going to take the crowbar to that frame again, though I'd lay odds that it won't be any more successful this time than any of the others. The worst of it is, I can almost feel it giving way, but it's like there's something holding it back._  
  
As enticing as the image was of Potter modifying something already perverted into something even pervier, Snape's recently unruly prick could do no more than throb in sympathy. Summoning a quill, he nibbled at the tip and rubbed the feather over his lips for several minutes while he pondered his reply.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, Working at the frame while wearing the old cow's clothing can only reinforce to her your determination to have her out of your house. Don't forget to keep marking the area as well.  
  
Is it possible that your elf envies the clothing you have been soiling so gleefully? Given that clothes are the keys to a house elf's freedom, and considering your elf's loyalty to his previous mistress, I wonder whether you might negotiate a trade that will benefit you both: the remainder of her lingerie for an unequivocal declaration of devotion to yourself. That might liberate your elf both literally and emotionally, though if he still insists that he prefers to work, perhaps you could send him as a free elf to the portrait's nearest of kin along with the portrait itself.  
  
I assume that you have a document proclaiming your ownership of the property, a copy of a will or a letter from a solicitor? If possible, I suggest that you have such a document framed and hung prominently near the portrait, but on a facing wall, in a place where she can't help noticing it. And do be careful using a crowbar while your private bits are exposed. You wouldn't want to slip. _ The Daily Prophet _will not be held liable if you injure yourself by taking the advice of this column to excess._  
  
Having sent the owl off with its burden -- and an extra mouthful of canned meat -- Snape went to his bedroom and pulled out his collection of magazines, flipping through the advertisements in the back. He wondered whether Potter had used the pseudonym "Kreacher" for other purposes, such as ordering sex toys. There were several shops that sold lingerie for men, but Potter didn't need oversized items; a standard-sized garter would fit him, and he could pick up stockings in a Muggle shop if he wished, claiming that he needed them to strain yogurt.  
  
Frowning, Snape wondered why Potter had suggested that he might need help obtaining such items on his own when it should be a relatively simple matter even for someone as famous as Harry Potter to track down a garter and stockings. Then he smirked. Potter wasn't the only one who could pretend to be shopping for a cheesecloth substitute. Perhaps a detour was in order on his way to obtain potion ingredients.  
  
Two hours later, Snape had a fine collection of naughty lingerie and toys purchased at a discreet boutique in Knockturn Alley. The only uncomfortable moment had come when the shop owner had offered to gift wrap them for him. Though Snape had, of course, permitted the owner to believe that he was buying the items for a lady friend, he couldn't very well explain under any circumstances that he intended to wank with the stockings before cleaning and wrapping them for their intended recipient. In the end he had paid for the gift wrapping. It would be worth the price for the peace of mind of knowing that no one would suspect the use to which he intended to put the delicate items.  
  
The owl had not returned when Snape arrived home, so he put himself to work on his other major project: taking possession of Skeeter's column. A combination of mirrors and weasels ought to work to drive the cockatrices from the Malfoy pantries, but snakeskins were a bother even when the snake in question wasn't an oversized, cursed creature that had fed on human flesh. Ordinary drain-clearing potions wouldn't dissolve its scales. Smirking, Snape remembered Potter's joke about using Fiendfyre -- _that_ would work on the snakeskins, though it would probably destroy the entire plumbing system as well, and wouldn't it serve Lucius right to open his toilet and experience an eruption of fire and excrement?  
  
But that would not endear him to Skeeter even if she privately agreed. Sighing, Snape pulled out his books and tried to concentrate on dissolving agents instead of thinking about how Potter would look in the garter and stockings Snape had bought for him and how much Snape was going to enjoy coming all over them before cleaning and rewrapping them for Potter. Perhaps he would even mark them as well.  
  
A tapping at the window interrupted Snape's research. The owl had returned just in time for supper. "Greedy bird," Snape told it, though he knew it was apparent to the owl how pleased he was to see it. The owl pranced a bit, sticking out its leg, and Snape whimpered softly as he realized that the note had been tied to its leg with a scrap of lace.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Prince, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I actually pried the frame a full inch away from the wall. The bad news is that the old bat started screaming about her filthy son the minute I hung up my copy of the will and she hasn't let up all night. Got me out of the mood to be wicked in her clothes, and I'm a bit sore anyway from working with the crowbar. I don't suppose you'd like to come over and give me a massage and help me do something that would really shock the old bat?_  
  
A tremble went through Snape's hands. He was fairly certain he'd gone pale -- he did not like the sensation of blood draining from his face ever since all the blood had quite literally drained out of his face. He thought Potter was probably joking, at best, and at worst, being rash and impulsive.  
  
He _was_ joking, wasn't he? Snape read the brief missive again. Yes, definitely joking. The brat had a sense of humor; Snape vividly remembered that even the Weasley boy could make him laugh. The nature of their exchanges, while informative and instructive, had also taken on a bit of informality. Potter wasn't -- couldn't be -- flirting with him.  
  
Practically anyone assisting Potter with removing the vicious portrait, even Skeeter herself, could have earned the flirtatious invitation. Snape wrinkled his nose at the idea of Skeeter's long tinted nails massaging Potter's smooth, slender back...  
  
Taking up his quill, Snape decided to try a little insouciance himself.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, excellent news about your progress with the crowbar, though I must caution you, to a less discerning columnist, it might sound as though you were flirting. Yours very sincerely --_  
  
He was already contemplating various acts of debauchery upon Potter's new stockings as he sent the disgruntled owl off. Before he could implement any debauchery, however, the owl was back, looking as though it hadn't already mooched dinner off Snape.  
  
"Your master is eager to apologize," Snape said, feeling a bit of trepidation mixed with satisfaction as he unwrapped the brief roll of parchment.  
  
 _What if I am flirting?_  
  
Apparently Potter wasn't apologizing.  
  
Snape too omitted the salutation. _Do you have so little sense as to proposition a virtual stranger, or so little self-worth that you would invite just any man into your home to share your favors? I believed you were serious about the problem I have been devoting so much of my valuable research time to solving. If it is your intent merely to entice someone into committing wanton sexual acts..._  
  
Snape's quill quivered a bit while writing this last bit and he shifted on his chair.  
  
 _...then I suggest you consult one of the numerous Muggle sexual advisors, readily accessible via the highly suggestive ads they place in the backs of magazines with which you are obviously familiar._  
  
He was working up a good head of steam when the cat jumped up on the table and butted the hand holding the quill. "Too much?" he asked it, giving the top of its head a scritch, getting a plaintive mwrowr for his trouble. He rubbed the tip of the quill over his bottom lip several times. "But -- " The cat blinked at him. As if conspiring, the owl hooted softly. Since it was one of the rare occasions it didn't have a beakful of bacon, Snape allowed himself a pause, re-reading what he'd written. With determination he added:  
  
 _Besides, what if I have pustulant boils?_  
  
The owl gave him a disbelieving look as Snape tied the note to its leg. "Don't worry, your master will keep you in after he reads this."  
  
It took a while to work his mood back up enough to contemplate debauchery. For some reason the notion that Potter would flirt so outrageously with whomever was on the other end of Snape's quill quite put him off debauchery, at least temporarily. He had just started to unwrap the package with the stockings when he heard a tap on his window.  
  
"What on -- " he said, aloud, dropping the package with a guilty start, as though Potter had alerted some Lingerie Patrol and turned him in. "Potter really is daft, sending you back out on a night like this," Snape snapped, opening the window. It didn't matter that it was a fine night, with a bright moon, and it was barely even 10 pm. Potter was obviously daft. Or desperate.  
  
 _Pustulant boils, eh? My Potions teacher taught me a really good potion for boils. Perhaps I should come over there and lance them for you._  
  
Snape gave the owl a sharp look, as though it had been responsible for this outrage. His glare was lost on the wretched bird, which had settled itself on the folded blanket Snape usually kept on the window ledge for it. He turned his attention to the rest of the note.  
  
 _I'm sorry if you don't like me flirting with you, and I won't do it again if you don't want. If you're worried, though, I assure you I'm not hideous, not even a single boil. I'm young but well out of school, healthy, and haven't made anyone of either sex run away screaming at the sight of me. My main faults -- aside from owning a house with a mad portrait in it -- are, according to that same professor, an excess of cheek, and a recently discovered pervy streak._  
  
This definitely called for a reply, but when he got out the quill, the owl looked at him reproachfully. "Aren't you supposed to hunt at night?" Snape demanded, pointing at the window. The bird, which had probably finished off Potter's dinner as well as Snape's, merely puffed and turned its head. "Very well, it can wait until morning. I'm just going to write it out and you can take it after breakfast." To make up for its busy evening, he tossed the spoiled owl a treat.  
  
It occurred to Snape as he nibbled on the point of his quill that Potter had complimented him. He hadn't thought Potter was paying attention when he'd taught the first-years the Cure for Boils -- had it been Potter who had melted his cauldron, or was it Longbottom?  
  
Was it possible that Potter realized...?  
  
No, that was ridiculous. If Potter had guessed that he was writing to his former Potions professor, he wouldn't be so cheeky as to mention Snape's lack of appreciation for his cheekiness. And Potter certainly wouldn't want Snape to know about his newfound pervy streak.  
  
 _Dear Mr. Kreacher, As you know, it is normal for young, healthy men to indulge in flirtation, particularly when they have recently discovered new sexual inclinations and when liberation from an oppressive senior figure, such as your portrait, is at hand. However, I am neither young nor in the best of health, having taken on this research post while recuperating from a very serious injury._  
  
Pausing to reread this sentence, Snape brushed the feather of his quill over the discolored skin on his throat. No attractive young man would wish to spend time with someone so hideously scarred. Then there was the matter of the Dark Mark, which had not faded on his own arm nor those of any of the surviving Death Eaters the way the Mark had done the first time Lord Voldemort fell. Snape was damaged for life.  
  
 _I see that I may have misled you about my intentions. I was willing to engage in a certain level of explicit talk to make clear the importance of displaying mastery -- physical, emotional, erotic -- over the home which you now inhabit, but I cannot personally become involved with the more intimate aspects of your efforts to remove the portrait. Once you have freed your home from the tyrannical behavior of its subject, you will be able to entertain many handsome young men who appreciate your cheek and your pervy streak._  
  
Sighing, Snape looked at the package with the stockings and garters. There was no way he could send it to Potter now, even anonymously. Frowning, he glanced back at the parchment.  
  
 _In the meantime, I wish to remind you of the importance of securing your house elf's cooperation. And don't neglect the glue-dissolving potion. Sincerely yours, Mr. Prince_  
  
Quite out of the mood for debauchery, Snape tied a string around the parchment, read a few pages of his vampire novel, and went to bed. He slept very little, however, and rose, extremely cross, before the sun was up. The cat rose with him, rubbing his legs, so Snape fed both of his accidental pets before sending the owl out into the half-light of morning.  
  
There was still the problem of the Malfoy drains to solve. Blearily, Snape rubbed his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache. No doubt he could recruit Draco to help make the necessary potions -- no doubt Draco was still so grateful to Snape for saving his life that Draco would do whatever Snape suggested, scars or no scars -- yet Snape couldn't even pretend that the thought cheered him up. He wanted no more to do with snobby wizards who believed themselves superior to him despite the fact that they were only alive because of him.  
  
Most of the ingredients for the necessary snakeskin-dissolving potions were rare, expensive, and available only from the shadiest of apothecaries. After dashing off a note to Skeeter demanding reassurance that he would be reimbursed for the Galleons he would need to spend to concoct the drain treatment, Snape dressed and departed for Knockturn Alley. He kept his hood up, not wishing to be recognized by any former friends or foes.  
  
As he rounded the corner in front of a cart of poisonous candles, he came to an abrupt halt. Harry Potter was standing in front of Snape's preferred apothecary, looking up and down the street with an expectant expression.  
  
The wisest course of action, Snape knew, would be to turn around and return home as quickly as possible. He could always have the ingredients shipped to his house, and there was really no hurry to return the stockings and garters in the package he had hastily shoved in a pocket as he left. Speaking to Potter would not provide any additional clues to help remove the loathsome portrait, and would very likely only lead to trouble, which...  
  
As if some spell had alerted Potter to Snape's presence, Potter's head swung around and his eyes met Snape's.  
  
"Professor!" The greeting was quiet enough not to draw the attention of anyone else in the street, but Snape could not pretend he hadn't heard. Scowling, he nodded acknowledgment, and Potter offered him a wide smile. "I'm looking for ingredients for a glue-dissolving potion. I don't suppose you have any secrets you'd like to share about the best way to make one?"  
  
Besides bloodroot, of which Snape had provided Potter with an ample supply, none of the ingredients in the potion that Snape had written out was rare enough that Potter couldn't have found it at Slug  & Jiggers in a more respectable neighborhood. He frowned, but this did not deter Potter, who continued to smile brightly as he launched into a discussion of his efforts to remove Walburga Black's portrait, peppered with compliments for his anonymous adviser yet lacking any mention of perviness.  
  
Potter was dressed casually in jeans and had made no effort to hide his identity, which led to several curious stares from the unsavory sorts who frequented Knockturn Alley. It seemed almost as if he'd wished to be recognized by someone, though he ignored the stares. Despite being a bit older, he looked much as Snape had remembered -- fit, boyish, full of energy. His resemblance to his father was no longer so apparent.  
  
"...so if you aren't in a hurry, would you like to come have a drink? We could go to the Leaky Cauldron, or, if you want, you could come to Grimmauld Place with me -- I could show you how I'm doing with the portrait."  
  
Blinking, Snape stopped his surreptitious study of Potter's bum and brought Potter's face back into focus, trying to absorb these preposterous words from Potter's mouth. It was bad enough that Potter would flirt with complete strangers and discuss his wicked proclivities, but for Potter to invite a former professor whom he had loathed out for a drink was so inappropriate that Snape could only think of one reply:  
  
"I believe I would, yes."  
  
Beaming, Potter turned in the direction of Diagon Alley. Snape took a moment to shove the package with the stockings deeper into his pocket before following. Skeeter and the Malfoy drains could wait.  
  
It was odd, climbing the steps of the former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, odder still to be welcomed inside by the still-chattering Potter, who'd filled Snape in on practically everything he'd been up to since they'd last seen each other in the Ministry when Snape had been formally pardoned. All without a word of his -- in Potter's own words -- recently acquired pervy streak.  
  
Potter paused on the top step, looking rueful, and for a moment Snape thought he was about to come to his senses and rescind the invitation. Potter looked at the old-fashioned key he'd fished out of his pocket. "It, um, smells a bit," he explained, making a face that could indicate anything from the presence of puddles of piss to a decomposing house elf body.  
  
"I remember," Snape said, following Potter inside. It did smell a bit, but of neither of the two guesses Snape had made. "It's just musty. There's a -- "  
  
"Potion for that," Potter said, smiling, "I know, I've just been focused on..." His eyes strayed to the curtains hanging over Walburga's portrait.  
  
"I understand," Snape said, his own voice lowering accordingly. He was pleased to see that Potter had in no way been exaggerating the state of battle in the front hall. There was a huge trunk beside the stairs with several frothy bits of lace dangling from the lid as though they'd been stuffed there in haste. Around the portrait and on the floor beneath were conspicuous chunks of wood and plaster, as well as gouges in the walls all around the curtains, and a cauldron containing some sort of noxious potion. There was a folded camp bed tucked into another corner.  
  
Noting his regard, Potter said, "I think we're winning," and gestured to the sitting room off the hall, closing the door softly.  
  
Snape shot him a sharp look. "We?"  
  
Potter was moving to a pair of decanters on a sideboard. "I told you about the advice columnist, well, researcher, really." Potter's voice was warm and almost fond as he spoke of this man he didn't know while Snape removed his cloak. "Let's see, I have firewhiskey and um -- " He leaned over, his bum toward Snape as he examined the bottle, straightening slowly. "And firewhiskey." He flushed a bit, though whether at not having an ample stock of liquor or because he'd caught Snape admiring the view, Snape wasn't certain. "I never used to like this stuff but since I've moved in here -- "  
  
He gave a shudder and then gestured to the loveseats by the window. Snape took one and expected to feel awkward sharing a drink with someone who had once hated him so much. Potter took the seat facing Snape's, leaning forward a bit.  
  
"She's been such a nightmare, you've no idea." Potter looked into his glass. Despite his earlier protestations, he hadn't taken a sip yet. "Screeching at all hours, calling me every filthy name you can imagine." He grinned, looking boyish. "Well, I'm sure you did imagine a lot of things to call me."  
  
It was a testament to the air of confidentiality that Potter had built up between them that Snape said at once, "You must know I had to."  
  
Potter's smile faltered and they shared a look that went on too long to be dismissed. He said, "Yeah, I figured." Then the smile was back. "You were really good at it." As one they lifted their glasses together as if someone had spoken a toast. "Anyway, I've made progress, can you tell?" He jerked his head toward the outer hall. "Thanks to this amazing man. I'd be living in the Leaky Cauldron or in some Muggle place if it wasn't for him."  
  
Unaccountably Snape felt a completely irrational stab of jealousy. He covered it with another sip of whisky.  
  
"I've done everything he said, even when I was sure he was mad, or having me on." Potter's cheeks pinked, though he didn't elaborate.  
  
"Have you met this paragon?" Snape asked, feeling the sudden burning weight of the stockings, not yet debauched, in his robe pocket.  
  
Potter rolled his glass between his hands, still leaning forward. "I tried, but unfortunately he has pustulant boils."  
  
Snape was about to retort that there was a potion for that, too, when a tapping noise drew his attention. He glanced in the direction of the window and blanched. Kirby was pecking at the latch.  
  
"Just a minute." Potter had leapt out of his seat and walked over to let the owl in. Snape noted that the bird carried no mail, though Potter seemed unconcerned. "I need to find him something to eat."  
  
Unfortunately, the owl promptly flew from the perch near the window to the arm of Snape's chair, digging its talons into the upholstery and hooting with what looked to Snape like glee. "I have no food for you," he announced crossly, but the bird didn't seem to care, bobbing its head and cooing in what seemed to Snape an overly familiar manner.  
  
A chuckle made Snape look up. Potter was grinning widely. "He likes you. Usually he only acts like that with people he knows."  
  
Snape could not keep a blush from rising in his cheeks. To cover it, he lifted his glass and took a sip, watching from the corner of his eye as the bird tried to dig into his pocket. It was the one with the stockings, and he blocked it with his arm, receiving a peck on the sleeve for his trouble. "Ouch!"  
  
The owl let out an indignant squawk, making Potter shoot an anxious glance toward the door. "I had better get him some dinner..."  
  
But it was too late. A furious howl came from the hallway. "Filthy blood traitor! Son of a mudblood!" Potter winced, but when the portrait screamed, "Unnatural pervert!" he marched to the door, flinging it open.  
  
"BE QUIET!"  
  
Without giving the matter much thought, Snape rose and followed him. He was curious to see how much effect his schemes had had on the vile old woman.  
  
Potter flung open the curtains, glaring up at Mrs. Black. "This is my house. The deed giving it to me is hanging right on that wall. You know what I'm going to do to your things later..."  
  
But Walburga Black's attention had been entirely diverted from Harry Potter when she caught sight of Snape behind him. "YOU!" she shrieked. "Murderer!" Snape stared in astonishment -- he would not have thought that any Black family portrait would have considered it a crime to have Dumbledore's blood on his hands -- but apparently Walburga's knowledge of wizarding history was up to date, because she continued, "Betrayer of the Dark Lord! Half-blood abomination! I will not have you in the house of my fathers!"  
  
"She really hates you," Potter said. He sounded impressed.  
  
"Shut up, Mrs. Black," said Snape, with great satisfaction.  
  
Her eyes went round, then her shoulders straightened and she opened her mouth more widely than Snape would have believed possible in a living person. "Filth! Deserter! You are no true Slytherin!"  
  
"Is that the best you can do?" A familiar smell emanated from the cauldron by the wall -- Snape's own glue-dissolving potion, if he wasn't mistaken, even though Potter had claimed to be out of ingredients. He gave it a stir and picked up the brush sitting by the cauldron. "I've a mind to take you down myself."  
  
To Snape's surprise, Mrs. Black actually looked afraid. He supposed that, to a fellow Slytherin, his reputation as a vicious deceiver might in fact make him worthy of fear. "Pathetic unloved freak!" she spat.  
  
"That's not true!" objected Potter before Snape could reply. Snape glanced at him in surprise and saw Potter's cheeks flush, but Potter didn't stop shouting at the portrait. "He has more friends than _you_ do!"  
  
This brought the portrait's attention back to Potter. "Filthy pervert!" she accused again. "Unnatural monstrosity! QUEER!"  
  
"You don't like queers?" Snape asked her in a quiet, deadly voice. He stepped closer to Potter and smirked inwardly as the portrait flinched as though she expected them to drop to the floor and commit sodomy right there. Grabbing the curtains, he shouted, "NOW SHUT UP!" and yanked them shut over her twisted features.  
  
Potter was staring at him with what looked like a mix of admiration and nervousness. "She _really_ hates you," he said. "I think she might be afraid of you, too." Biting his lip, he gestured at the cauldron. "That's your glue-dissolving potion, isn't it? I recognized the modifications from the basic ingredients from the Half-Blood Prince's textbook. Well -- " Again Potter blushed. " -- except the piss, but that seems to be doing the job here."  
  
Snape sputtered faintly. He was about to utter a denial when the owl flew through the open door from the other room and landed on the banister nearest Snape, hooting happily.  
  
"And Kirby knows you too. I couldn't be sure because you disguised your handwriting, but something about those notes sounded professorial. Like a potions teacher dealing with a slow student." Grinning, Potter added, "And I knew you knew it was me."  
  
Snape had no idea how to reply. Of course, he could claim to have no idea what Potter was talking about, march out of the house, and never speak to Potter or "Mr. Kreacher" again. But Potter wasn't looking at Snape the way he would look at someone with pustulant boils, though without the cloak, the scars on Snape's throat must have been apparent. He was looking more curious about what sorts of things the man who'd instructed him to wank with lacy knickers might be willing to try.  
  
"I hope you don't mind that I went looking for you. I saw Rita Skeeter at the Ministry and asked how she could possibly have time to research everything herself for her new column. She claimed she was doing it entirely on her own, but when I suggested I might write a guest column for her on household protection spells, she got more friendly. She still wouldn't admit that she had an assistant, but she told me she'd been advised that the apothecary in Knockturn Alley was the most discreet in London. I thought that maybe I could find you there."  
  
By now, Snape knew, he should have told Potter that this was all a mistake. The fact that he hadn't said anything was as good as confirming all of Potter's suspicions. "You should have been trying to secure your house elf's assistance," he said crossly, unable to come up with a more intelligent retort.  
  
Potter grinned again. "I don't think I'll have any trouble persuading Kreacher that he'd rather be somewhere else than cleaning up after me after what I have in mind," he said. "If you're willing. Since Mrs. Black hates you as much as she hates me, and since all your perverted suggestions have been so effective -- and since I have managed to get you over here, and you don't have pustulant boils, and I'm sure we could find a way to treat them if you did -- how about if we send the old bag screaming into some other painting and get her out of here for good?"  
  
"You aren't seriously suggesting -- " Snape sputtered, but compared to his really good sputters, this one didn't have his whole attention. Potter had started undoing buttons, stepping closer, into what would have been Snape's arms if he'd had them out in expectation of having an armful of Potter.  
  
"Well, it doesn't have to be serious," Potter said, his mouth turning up as it sought Snape's. "But I bet it will be fun." He was so close that it didn't matter if Snape had his arms out or not. "And I bet it will drive Walburga spare."  
  
Snape threw his arms around Potter and pressed his mouth against his.  
  
The curtains flew open. "WHAT ARE YOU -- " screamed the portrait.  
  
"Isn't it obvious?" said Snape, making certain they were angled for maximum oil-based outrage. Potter didn't seem to mind, kissing Snape's throat when his mouth was busy refuting their audience.  
  
"YOU WILL CEASE!"  
  
"No, I don't think so," Snape retorted. There were white specks of paint spittle on Mrs. Black's mouth.  
  
"Ceasing isn't even remotely on the horizon," Potter agreed, sliding Snape's shirt aside and kissing a strip of exposed skin, using his tongue in a marvelously obscene way. "Hmmm, I think you might have a boil after all," Potter went on, obviously meaning to be witty as he pressed his own boil against Snape's.  
  
On the wall, the portrait went apoplectic. Its face turned a shade of splotchy red that had never been used in the original painting. There were breathy screeches, but it was no worse than Snape had already heard, indeed had heard ever since he first set foot in this house.  
  
" -- house of my fathers, in all my life..."  
  
"But you're dead," Potter said, tugging off his shirt and tossing it over the bulging trunk. He reached for Snape's robes. More softly, he said, "I'm sorry our first time has to be in front of that nightmare."  
  
"She won't break my concentration," Snape assured him, curious about why Potter would say first time when surely he meant only time, but he supposed with all the racket the old cow was kicking up, Potter could be forgiven for a slip of the tongue -- especially when it was such a delightful tongue. That tongue slid over Snape's chest, latching around one nipple with admirable concentration.  
  
"FILTH!"  
  
"No, it's actually quite nice," Potter murmured as he moved to sample the other one. His lips twitched as he continued softly, "Hardly pustulant at all."  
  
Snape thrust his fingers into Potter's hair, ignoring the torrent of insults that issued from the wall.  
  
"Queers! Shirt lifters! Poofs!"  
  
"Is that the best you can do? You sound like some Victorian maiden in a tiresome melodrama," Snape said, pushing open his robes to facilitate Potter's plundering. Come to think of it, Snape had no idea how old Walburga had been at her demise, or her birthing of the whelp that had tormented Snape's school years. With wizarding assistance and longevity, he supposed she could have actually been a Victorian maiden at one point.  
  
Potter, obviously untroubled now by nudity in front of the portrait, tossed his trousers and pants on top of the trunk as well. He knelt before Snape got a really good look, but what he did see assured him that he would not be disappointed by anything Potter chose to do here in the hallway.  
  
"If this doesn't work, we might have to try the stockings," Potter said, just before pressing his face against a place on Snape that was definitely not a boil.  
  
Wordlessly Snape reached into his pocket and pulled out the package with the stockings. Potter's expression as he opened it was worth every moment of discomfort Snape had suffered at the gift wrap counter.  
  
"You actually went and found me some! Do you want me to put them on?" Even as Potter spoke, he had dropped the package into his lap so that he could reach up and unfasten Snape's trousers.  
  
Snape was torn. As much as he wanted to see Potter in the stockings and garters, he did not want to distract Potter from what he was doing there on his knees. "Soon," he demurred, twitching against Potter's fingers as they tugged Snape's pants partway down his legs.  
  
Grinning, Potter set the unwrapped package aside. "Let me thank you properly," he said, lifting his chin to kiss the tip of Snape's prick.  
  
The portrait shrieked, but Snape could hardly hear her over his own groan. It had been years, decades really, since anyone had done that, though judging by the enthusiasm with which Potter was moving his mouth, he had a bit more recent experience. Warm lips slipped over the head of Snape's erection, engulfing it, as Potter's hands slid up Snape's exposed thighs. "Fuck -- Potter -- " If this kept up, Snape knew, he would embarrass himself very quickly. "Let me take my robes off."  
  
"NO!" wailed the portrait, but neither Snape nor Potter spared her a glance. With a soft slurp, Potter released Snape's prick and sat back, grinning up at him.  
  
"Yes, please. Oh, and I should -- " Turning on his knees, Potter opened the trunk, exposing a great deal of faded lace and antique jewelry. "I was thinking I should wrap her pearls around my cock and wank with them, or come on her lingerie. But now that you're here, I have an even better idea. There's bits of her trousseau in here, and I think it would drive her round the bend if we made love on her wedding veil."  
  
"FILTHY QUEERS!" the portrait shrieked, but again Snape paid her no mind. He was too distracted even to worry about all the scars and imperfections he was exposing as he tugged off his own clothing. If Potter wanted to fuck -- no, Potter had said he wanted to _make love_ \-- right here and now, then not even an army of Death Eaters was going to distract Snape.  
  
"Does it matter who's on top? In terms of proving dominion over the house or anything?" asked Potter.  
  
"I think not," Snape replied, tossing his shirt on top of his waistcoat and helping Potter dig through musty layers of silk to find the veil. He preferred to be on top, but if Potter was going to insist on showing Walburga who had authority in this house...  
  
"Good, because I'd really love for you to fuck me. I've dreamed about it for years." Snape sat back to stare at Potter after this even more astonishing revelation, but Potter was smiling as if all his cares in the world had been lifted, even though Mrs. Black was sobbing continually at the top of her voice. "Here, I think -- " With a tug, Potter pulled a discolored expanse of lace from the trunk. "This is it."  
  
"Don't touch that with your vile traitorous hands!" ordered the portrait. Grinning, Potter handed Snape a corner of the veil, and Snape tugged it across the floor at the foot of the portrait. He sniffed, but couldn't smell Potter's scent marking, which was probably just as well, though his prick twitched again at the thought of Potter standing right here and pissing.  
  
Mrs. Black was right -- he _was_ a pervert, but Snape didn't have the least bit of regret about that. He groaned anew when he glanced back at Potter only to see that Potter was tying a pair of lacy knickers in a messy knot around his hard prick. "Might as well muss as many things as possible," Potter said with a wink when he saw Snape looking. Glancing up at the portrait, he told Walburga, "Look, I'm going to get myself buggered on your trousseau and come all over your knickers!"  
  
"DISGUSTING MONSTROSITY!"  
  
"If you don't want to watch," Potter continued sweetly, "there's a very detailed portrait of a serpent devouring a lion in your old room. You could always go there."  
  
"FILTH!"  
  
Snape laughed softly. Potter turned to look at him with a wide smile and said, "Funny how she doesn't bother my libido when you're around." He dropped to all fours on the veil and rubbed himself shamelessly against it, making his bum bob up and down so enticingly that Snape found himself moaning as often as the portrait was screaming. Then Potter rolled over, giving his lace-covered prick a stroke. "Want to get me ready? I bet you know a spell."  
  
Snape did, indeed, know a spell, though he had lost track of his wand as he discarded his clothes, something he rarely -- no, never -- did. It took him a few seconds to track it down, during which time Potter wriggled in anticipation. "You haven't really dreamed about this for years?" Snape asked, not wishing for Potter to believe that he was susceptible to such flattery when in all likelihood Potter was more concerned with indulging his own perversions and getting rid of his troublesome portrait at the same time.  
  
"Have too. Not when I was ridiculously young, I don't mean -- I was kind of slow to discover sex, and then I thought I was supposed to like girls so I tried to make myself think about them when I wanked." He got up on one elbow to watch Snape pull the wand free from the pocket in which it had become entangled when he'd flung his clothes away. "I always thought about you, though, even when I was supposed to be trying to kill you. Once I knew you were on the same side, and it wasn't only that you used to want my mother -- and I hadn't actually left you to die, so I didn't have to feel guilty -- I thought a lot about how maybe you'd let me make it up to you someday."  
  
There were dozens of things Snape knew he should say to this -- corrected assumptions, astonished questions -- but he couldn't think clearly with Potter lying there touching his own prick and watching Snape with such obvious enthusiasm. What came out of his mouth was, "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to this."  
  
"Enough to do it again and again, I hope," replied Potter with a breathless laugh. The portrait screamed anew about how revolting he was, but Potter didn't lift his eyes from Snape's as he lay back, raising his knees.  
  
"Once may be enough to get rid of her." Snape jerked his head toward the painting above them.  
  
"Once may be enough for her, but it won't be for me, and I think you still want to see me in those garters." Potter's smirk was worthy of a Slytherin. He reached up around Snape's neck, pulling Snape's head down, and kissed him so thoroughly that Snape could not doubt the truth of Potter's words. Wordlessly he cast the lubrication spell, letting the wand roll aside as he stroked over Potter's hard prick and firm balls, rubbing a finger over the tight entrance which opened as Potter pressed down to let Snape nudge inside.  
  
They both groaned, nearly drowned out by the outrage of Mrs. Black. The vile epithets only made Snape more aroused, as if needing to live up to each spatter of vile in the most perverted way possible.  
  
"Yes, fuck, like that," gasped out Potter, his mouth pressed against Snape's shoulder. It felt good to Snape too, feeling Potter's body yielding to each slick foray of Snape's fingers. He was alert to any sounds of distress, but Potter's moans held no trace of pain. His movements urged Snape to go deeper and harder and faster. Just moving like this with Potter -- the lace around his prick rough and exotic against his skin -- might have been enough to make him go off just frotting against it if he wasn't careful.  
  
The wholly unexpected notion that Potter wanted more, in fact perhaps had been wanting him even as Snape had been wanting Potter, lent a bit of insouciance to the act.  
  
"Wanton pervert!" Walburga screamed, though Snape could hear a trace of more than anger -- distress, perhaps -- in her shriek.  
  
Potter shifted, tilting his face up so he could unleash his grin on Snape. "Hey, I like that one," he said, repeating it sotto voce, close to Snape's ear, "Wanton pervert."  
  
Snape liked it too, but mostly because of the way Potter was smiling at him. Whether it was Potter's unabashed delight or Snape's showy display of slicking up his own prick, the portrait let out a sustained whimper instead of more shrieking. Potter's appreciation was immediate and gratifying. He slid his arms around Snape's neck, and as Snape pushed in, wrapped his legs around him, urging him inside. Snape surged in with a grunt, closing his eyes a moment lest the bliss of it be too much, too fast.  
  
There was an odd noise behind Snape -- he hoped it was Walburga's voiced vituperation of his arse bobbing as he moved inside Potter, but Snape didn't stop what he was doing to look over his shoulder. It went on for the time it took to thrust in hard, then cut off abruptly as Snape pulled out slowly.  
  
"I think she's fainted," said Potter, his voice managing to sound lighthearted even while breathless. Then he kissed Snape again and Snape heard no more, except, somewhere far off, a sort of angry buzzing that built up to a shriek of outrage.  
  
"I think she's done more than fainted," Snape panted. Then, because he didn't wish to speak of Walburga Black while fucking -- no, _making love_ , Potter had insisted -- with Harry Potter, either for their first time or any other time, he wrapped his hand around Potter's prick and tugged. Potter made a much more satisfying noise. Even the sound of Potter sucking in his breath, head tilted back, throat exposed, was driving Snape over the edge. Potter looked even better lost in pleasure than he had looked perverted, and he'd looked quite fine then.  
  
Potter's fingers clenched into Snape's shoulders, and after years of not having this, Snape knew he was close. "You know what I want," Snape urged him, his voice not much louder than a growl. Harry nodded, pushing himself urgently into the sheath of fingers.  
  
"Yes, fuck, want you, want -- "  
  
"Want you too," Snape said, knowing even if Potter's perverted ways went no further than what he'd already reported to Snape, he wanted this again, wanted it as many times as Potter would give it to him, wanted it even if Potter wanted to assert his own sort of dominance and top. This time, however, he wanted it just like this. "Come for me," he ordered, giving the lace-covered prick a few hard strokes, watching Potter's face contort, and when he felt Potter convulse and cover his fingers and the lace with hot spurts from his prick, Snape thrust hard inside the clenching passage and erupted with a roar of triumph.  
  
The sound of sobbing brought him back to himself. He gazed down at Potter in horror, but the noises weren't coming from Potter's smiling, slack-jawed mouth. Rather, they were coming from above them both. Instead of looking up at Mrs. Black, Snape glanced at Potter's prick, still wrapped in wet lace, and at the veil beneath them, which was rumpled, stained, and torn on the bias beneath Potter's hip.  
  
"That was fantastic." Potter's voice sounded as delighted as his smile looked. "I knew it would be good if I actually got you to agree to do it, but that was even better than I imagined, the best I ever..."  
  
"You're flattering me," Snape grumbled, knowing that he was blushing and hoping Potter would be too distracted to notice both the color in his face and the smile he couldn't quite keep in. Then again, expressions of gratification could only make things worse for Mrs. Black, so he raised his voice. "Though it was very enjoyable, especially when you ejaculated all over the previous owner's lingerie." He slid carefully free of Potter's arse, grabbing a handful of veil to wipe both it and his own prick partially clean.  
  
A soft, miserable sob was heard from the direction of the portrait. Potter grinned at Snape. "'Very enjoyable' is a better mark than you ever gave me on anything at Hogwarts. Shall we continue? I could put the knickers on and piss in them. Or we could both piss on this veil..."  
  
"Filth," the portrait moaned feebly.  
  
Snape cocked his head, smirking. As much as he had enjoyed buggering Potter for Walburga's benefit, he thought he would prefer to bugger Potter the next time without any sort of audience to their shameless behavior. "She sounds as if she's losing strength. Perhaps we can finish off the old bag, as you call her, once and for all. Then we shall have sufficient privacy to do whatever we might wish."  
  
Nodding, Potter smiled again. "Let me have your robe," he requested. Puzzled, Snape handed him a corner, and Potter tugged it over both of them, sitting up partway. "Kreacher!" he called.  
  
Quickly Snape tugged the side of the robe more completely over himself. If was one thing to be naked beneath a portrait of the late Mrs. Black, but he didn't wish to be exposed in front of the treacherous elf.  
  
Kreacher's grumbling preceded him into the hall. "Master has been very wicked, dirtying up his house, polluting his hallways. Master has fouled his..."  
  
"I had my reasons," interrupted Potter, "and I know I've told you not to call me Master, but right now, you know what I want you to do."  
  
"Renounce my mistress," said Kreacher, glancing up at the whimpering portrait. "Tell her that my loyalty is to Harry Potter alone."  
  
"And in return..." Potter gestured at the trunk. "I will give you all her things. Clothing and jewelry, silver if you want it. You're free, Kreacher. You can return to Hogwarts if you wish, or stay here if you'd prefer that. You can even go live with the Malfoys if that's what you want."  
  
"The Malfoys are in disgrace," muttered Kreacher. Snape wondered whether he had heard that from Potter or whether the house elves had their own means of sharing news. "Kreacher serves Harry Potter, Harry Potter cannot free Kreacher..."  
  
"I already have. I gave you Master Regulus's locket. A locket is clothing, isn't it? You're still wearing it. You don't have to serve me -- you don't have to serve anybody. Just look up at that portrait and tell her that you have served me as loyally as you once served her, and you can take anything of hers that you wish."  
  
"You will not give my things to a worthless house elf!"  
  
Potter stood up, letting the robe fall away. Mrs. Black moved her hand to block her face from the sight of him naked except for the lace still around his prick, which he angrily pulled away. "Kreacher is not worthless."  
  
"He is an inferior being! Like your worthless Mudblood friends and the vile traitor with whom you fornicate!"  
  
"Snape is not a traitor, and Hermione is worth a thousand of you! Kreacher knows that, don't you, Kreacher? Tell old Walburga how Hermione treated you."  
  
"The Mudblood Granger has been kind to house elves," Kreacher admitted.  
  
"She is filth! As you are filth, serving a monstrous pervert! FILTH!" Mrs. Black was winding herself up for another bloodcurdling scream. Snape was about to cover his ears when Kreacher's gravelly voice surprised him.  
  
"The Mistress will not speak of Harry Potter that way! Harry Potter is the defender of house elves. Harry Potter finished the task begun by Master Regulus..."  
  
"YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT NAME! I SHALL SEE YOUR HEAD MOUNTED ON THE WALL!"  
  
Kreacher drew himself up to his full diminutive height. "You shall not. Kreacher is _not_ your servant. In this house, Kreacher serves Harry Potter!" The elf flung open the trunk, grabbing a handful of lace and gold. "Now Kreacher will join his fellow elves at Hogwarts!"  
  
Two things happened simultaneously. The first was that Kreacher Disapparated with a mighty bang that shook the walls, knocking the framed portrait from the thick wooden panel where it had hung for all this time.  
  
The second was that Mrs. Black disappeared out of the portrait.  
  
For a moment Potter and Snape stared at each other, absorbing what had just happened. Then Snape leapt to his feet to examine the empty frame.  
  
"Is she gone?"  
  
No sooner had Potter asked the question than there was a shriek from upstairs. "She must have fled into another portrait," Snape guessed. Before Walburga could change her mind, he grabbed his wand from where it had rolled on the floor and aimed it at the chipped frame lying sideways on the dirty floor. " _Evanesco!_ " The frame, and the dark background of the portrait within, disappeared forever.  
  
Potter grinned at him. "Brilliant! Though I suppose we had better see where she's got to before she makes any new trouble." They followed the hysterical screams up the stairs and into what had been Sirius Black's bedroom, which still had ridiculous Muggle photographs of women and motorbikes hanging on the walls. Lying on the desk was a magical postcard, a cheap miniature reproduction of a famous wizard's painting of Godric Gryffindor slaying a serpent.  
  
Walburga Black was cowering in the corner, howling in terror.  
  
"We should get this out of the house as soon as possible," Snape told Potter, who hadn't stopped grinning.  
  
"Can it be destroyed?" Potter asked, looking as if he'd like nothing better than to tear the postcard to shreds with his own hands.  
  
"Perhaps, but I have a better idea. May I take it with me?"  
  
Potter's smile vanished. "You're leaving already? I thought maybe, now that we've got to know each other a bit, we could have dinner and..."  
  
"I must leave for an hour or so. You found me in Knockturn Alley seeking ingredients for an important potion, a task that I must address. And the sooner this picture is out of your home, the better." Snape did not want to leave -- he was afraid that once he and the portrait were both gone, Potter would come to his senses, clean himself up, and find some more attractive lover -- but Potter's anxious expression alleviated that concern. Flushing a bit, Snape added, "And I have a cat to feed."  
  
Potter's eyes grew wide. "I never took you as the sort to have pets. Especially not cats."  
  
"I didn't plan to have this one. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, mostly for the cat, who eats as much as your owl."  
  
Grinning, Potter reached over to hand Godric and Walburga to Snape, wrapping the card in an old handkerchief to muffle her shrieks of protest. "All right, go feed your cat, but don't be long. I want to try those stocking things." He came over to hand the wrapped painting to Snape, leaning in to give him a kiss. "Promise?" he asked cheekily.  
  
Snape rolled his eyes in what he hoped was an insouciant manner. "You can't think that I will miss the opportunity to see your newfound wanton perversion on display."  
  
With a happy laugh, Harry thrust out his hips, wagging his prick for Snape's benefit. "I can't wait," he said. "I'll order us some takeaway and after dinner you can teach me all about magical uses of butt plugs." He took Snape's hand to lead Snape back to where they'd left their clothes. Snape did not let go until he had to retrieve his pants.  
  
Once they had dressed, Potter walked him to the door, grabbing Snape's shoulders to kiss him goodbye. "Don't be long," he reminded Snape. "Bring the cat if you like -- it will be awfully quiet around here without Kreacher or the old bag."  
  
"Are you inviting me to stay the night?"  
  
Grinning enthusiastically, Potter kissed him again. "I'm inviting you to stay the week. For starters. You have a lot of wanton perversions to teach me. But don't worry, I'll clean up the mess in the hall while you're gone."  
  
Unable to disguise his own smile, Snape went out with the portrait and Apparated to the Malfoy home. A hunched, defeated-looking Lucius Malfoy invited him in. Snape raised his eyes to find that Rita Skeeter was already there.  
  
"Severus! I was just telling Lucius and Narcissa how helpful you've been with my column." Snape raised his eyes at the use of their first names and was amused to see that the Malfoys did as well. "Have you come to start work on the drains?"  
  
"I came to tell you that the potion will be ready in two days," Snape told them. "It would be helpful if you did not use your toilets during that time; I suggest that you find a chamberpot."  
  
Both Lucius and Narcissa looked so horrified that Snape guessed their house elves must have fled when the Dark Lord fell. He raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture.  
  
"However, that is not why I have come. I have a gift for you."  
  
Snape unwrapped the cheap little card, trying to hide his smile. The moment it was uncovered, Walburga began to scream. "GET ME OUT OF HERE! GET THAT MONSTER GRYFFINDOR AWAY FROM ME! HOW DARE YOU REMOVE ME FROM MY OWN HOUSE!"  
  
Lucius stepped back, cowering near the fireplace, while Narcissa came forward, wrinkling her nose. "Is that my aunt? What on earth are you doing with this, Severus?"  
  
"It came into my possession," he said silkily. "Naturally, I thought that she would wish to be with family." He noted that Mrs. Black had not stopped screaming nor even acknowledged Narcissa's presence. He glanced up at the large Black family portrait above the mantel, which showed Bellatrix and Narcissa as little girls; though he suspected that Andromeda had once been in the portrait as well, no trace of her existed in any Malfoy painting. The little girls shrank back as Snape stepped close with the postcard, watching with satisfaction as Gryffindor's sword swung near Walburga and she vanished with a shriek, reappearing in the painting above the mantel.  
  
"HOW DARE YOU TAKE ME FROM MY OWN HOME, YOU FILTHY TRAITOR! I WILL NOT PERMIT THIS OUTRAGE!"  
  
Lucius shrank away from the shouting as Narcissa pressed a well-manicured hand to her forehead. "Severus, it was thoughtful of you to bring her to us, but I don't think this is the best place. Perhaps one of the older portraits along the cellar staircase..."  
  
Ignoring the polite objections, Snape transfigured the handkerchief into a curtain and used a levitation spell to float it over the painting, dropping the cloth over Walburga and her screams, which grew muffled and ceased. "I imagine that she'll be much happier to live with a suitable branch of the family," he said with a bland smile. Then, since he was already holding his wand up, he performed a silent Permanent Sticking Charm to be certain that Walburga would be hanging over the Malfoy mantel for a good long time.  
  
When he moved to put the postcard in his pocket, he was certain that both Godric Gryffindor and the serpent bowed to him.  
  
"I haven't told you my good news!" Skeeter had taken advantage of the interruption to do a surreptitious circle of the room, probably taking notes for the illustrations that would accompany her article about cleaning up after the Dark Lord. "My promotion has been approved. By the time next week's column is printed, I shall be the news editor of _The Daily Prophet_." She tilted her head as if posing for a profile picture. "I'm hoping that you'll take over my column, Severus, since it is such short notice and I need someone who won't bungle it completely. Though I did want to ask...any luck yet on that portrait with the Permanent Sticking Charm?"  
  
Snape glanced up over the mantel, where the makeshift curtain was billowing a bit as if a great struggle was taking place beneath it. "I'm very sorry," he said slowly. "But apart from some very dangerous dark spells that I cannot in good conscience recommend to any respectable reader of the _Daily Prophet_ , I have concluded that there is no certain way to undo a Permanent Sticking Charm."  
  
"Then our correspondent was right? Fiendfyre is the only way?"  
  
"Fiendfyre would, of course, destroy the entire room. Much better to cover up the offending object." Sounds emerged from beneath the curtain over the mantel as Snape offered his most insincere smile first to Narcissa, then to Lucius, then to Rita. "But now you must excuse me. I will be back in two days to clear up the drain problems. Until then, best of luck."  
  
With that, as a slow-building shriek emerged from above the mantel, Snape nonchalantly turned his back on the Malfoys and prepared to return to his home, at least for a few minutes. He had a cat to feed and some potions to check.  
  
And then, as soon as possible, he would be returning to the newfound delights of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He and Harry Potter had a great deal more wanton perversity to enjoy together.


End file.
